Acclimation
by blanyard
Summary: Ponyboy Curtis has just taken home a win at the Oklahoma state track meet. However, his celebrations are cut short.


**Based loosely off a book I read by ****Wendelin Van Draanen****. **

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_May 18, 1967_

_3:58pm_

It was the best feeling in the world.

My legs were on fire and I was completely totaled. I stumbled across the line, my palms found my knees like they were magnets, and I breathed.

I just breathed.

Everyone else was still pounding in behind me. In the mess of people, Coach Smith was on the track in seconds. I didn't see him - just felt his rough hand on my shoulder.

"Four thirty-six!" Coach's voice barely reached my consciousness. Tunnel vision. "What a goddamn race!"

I found the strength to stand up straight and grinned lopsidedly at him. He slung an arm around my shoulders, yanking me into him, almost causing me to collapse. My legs felt like they were made of jello.

"Unbelievable, Curtis. Unbelievable."

I wanted to see my brothers.

Mainly, I wanted to see Darry, who was forever impossible to impress. I think he relieved his football days vicariously through my track endeavors.

I wondered if "fasted high school mile" in Oklahoma would be enough to tide him over for a few months.

_If you had just sped up a little more on that second lap, you could've shaved 3 seconds…_

A delirious laugh escaped from my mouth. Coach was still talking, now animatedly with the official. I tuned him out.

Second and third place came up to me, punched my shoulder, congratulated me.

I nodded breathlessly. "You too."

Eventually I pried away from them all and found Darry and Soda. They were standing behind the wired fence that separated them and the finish line.

I went up to them and was aware of both of them grinning before Soda leaned over the fence for an awkward hug. If anything, I was relieved to have some of the weight taken off my legs for a few seconds.

"Wow, kiddo," he said. His amazement spoke for itself.

I just breathed heavily in response. My lungs were practically screaming for more air.

They hadn't burned this much since I had quit smoking.

It was Coach's idea and of course, Darry was all over it. It took a fair amount of puking, sweating, and migraines on my end, but after two months, cigarettes actually started to gross me out.

Who would've thought?

Next Darry was grabbing me from behind the fence. I noticed that he looked genuinely thrilled, and honestly; it felt better than winning.

"Holy shit kid. That was amazing."

His hands were death gripping my elbows, pinning them to my sides. I swear, the ice in his eyes starting to melt for a minute.

By that I mean I think he might've been crying.

A little bit.

My chest rose and fell rhythmically. Breathing was slowly getting easier.

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_16 hours later_

It was the worst feeling in the world.

I had a complete disregard for reality.

No one wanted to talk about it, so we ignored it.

I was constantly being bombarded with morphine-powered thoughts.

Playing with Soda in the yard when we were kids. My parents dying. Running into the burning church. Being at track practice. Taking a math test. Winning the mile at states.

Actually, the meet was the last thing I could remember explicitly. I kept on playing it in my mind.

Crossing the line. Coach clapping me on the back, telling me my time. How proud Darry was.

Him crying because he was happy.

Other than that, it felt like I hadn't had a clear thought in years.

I was exhausted. Whatever they had me on kept me awake all the time - not entirely present, though.

Along the line some strange face had explained that I couldn't go to sleep because I had a concussion.

Periodically, someone came into the room and asked me what year it was, what was my birthday, who was the president.

Sometimes I couldn't answer right. Or it took longer than it should've. It was terrifying. There was a gap in my memory I couldn't fill.

Either Darry or Soda were in the room at all times, sometimes both. They hung out in the background of my fever dreams.

I didn't want to talk to them. They pushed me, and I pushed away harder.

Another side effect of the drugs was that I was now unable to hold a conversation.

I did cry a lot. The worst thing was, I didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed. I just sat in my bed and cried and Darry and Soda sat there too, watched me helplessly.

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_May 19, 1967_

_2:16pm_

"Hi, Ponyboy."

The doctor had just entered the room. Darry and Soda immediately stopped their static sidebar conversation to regard him.

They were ready to eat up everything he said.

I struggled to sit up and wiped the crust out of my eyes, wincing. Darry shot me a concerned look. He looked ready to grab my shoulders and force me into a sitting position himself.

There was no need for that.

I had been sleeping. An hour or two ago someone had come in and taken the tube out of my hand, which meant I could finally sleep.

And sleep I had.

I had actually been hoping to maybe get a few more hours before this rude awakening.

"Hi," I said. I forgot the doctor's name. He was a middle aged guy.

"Not too talkative?" he grabbed a clip board that was hanging on a hook by the door and briefly glanced over it.

Feeling delirious, I stared at him, rubbing my eyes. I could never get rid of the burning, crying feeling.

I doubt this guy would be too talkative in my situation either.

The doctor snapped on a pair of blue rubber gloves and spoke to my brothers. "I just came to check in."

"That's fine," said Darry stiffly, forever all-business. I might've been imagining it, but I swear, he backed up a few inches to give him room.

_Here, you deal with him._

It felt like a stinging betrayal.

I saw Soda nod slowly, then give me a side eye look. My brain was too fried to read him like I normally could. I just stared.

The doctor strode across the room towards me and lifted my left arm gently by the elbow, stuffing me face first into my reality.

My arm, instead of having a hand, ended abruptly where the hand _should've _been.

I tried not to look at it when I didn't have to. I tried not to picture my bones being crushed when the side of the bus got torpedoed -

"It's already healing real nicely," I heard him say. I hadn't even noticed him starting to take the gauze off the stump.

Yellow tinted, bruised, fat staples holding my skin together in an unnatural way.

_Real nice._

It was like a wreck on the highway. I couldn't look away.

I swallowed thickly, nodding, prying away and locking eyes with Soda. I saw him try to nod encouragingly, but he was uncomfortable.

I felt doomed.

Then I spotted Darry, grinding his teeth, staring into blank space.

Doomed.

The doctor was putting on clean gauze now, still chatting away like we were all out for a drink.

"You're young and resilient. I think you should make a quick recovery." he paused, looking thoughtful. "You were real lucky too, that it wasn't worse."

"Right. Only short a limb." I said dryly in an attempt for humor. Behind me, Soda made a choking noise.

"Right," the doctor nodded swiftly, not acknowledging my 'joke', and finished with the stump. Then he looked at my brothers. "Like I said, he's young. I see no reason why he shouldn't fully recover."

"That's fantastic," said Darry quietly.

Then the doctor started discussing the technical parts of my hand chopping with my brothers and I tuned them out. I knew it was really an A and B conversation between him and Darry, because there was no way Soda was absorbing any of this shit, either.

A few minutes later, I heard myself being addressed again, and tried to re-focus.

"Bye, Ponyboy."

"Bye."

The doctor left.

It was silent.

Awkward.

My brothers looked totally hopeless.

Soda stared at me with what was supposed to be sympathetic, but he had no way of sympathizing with me right now. Not with his two functioning hands. "Aw, kid…" he trailed.

My chest hurt. I opened my mouth, to try to say something rational, to show that I didn't need help.

The flood gates broke and I just started crying again.

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**Please forgive any grammar/spelling errors. My keyboard hasn't been working right **

**Please review:)**


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